For both Klara and Laszlo the last two hectic weeks of Carnival passed as swiftly and as fleetingly as a dream.
During Lent, even though there were no public balls, Budapest society remained in their town houses and amused themselves with luncheons and small, informal evening parties. Most of the great houses were known for their political allegiances and in these would be received principally those whose politics matched those of the host and hostess. Sometimes the men would retire in little groups discussing party tactics, but in those houses where the head of the family was a party leader, or who hoped to be the next party leader, the hostess and her daughters would also take an active part in the discussions, especially with those whose loyalty was suspect or whom they hoped to recruit to their side — for who could contradict or give the lie to opinions, however half-baked, if they issued from lovely red lips and were accompanied by glances from smiling eyes that hinted at promises far removed from the world of politics?
All this passed Laszlo by, for he saw only the social side of these daily gatherings. No one bothered him with politics, for everyone knew that though he was a popular man-about-town, an elegant dancer and one of their own kind, he was not a figure cut out for law-making or party disputes. He was also rather silent, but no one thought any the worse of him because he did not talk about politics. As a result he enjoyed himself as he never had before, for he could see Klara every day, talk to her, even if others were with them, and delight in watching whatever she did whether walking about, standing, or sitting and eating ice-cream.
Gyeroffy was now invited out every night, not only to soirées and receptions but also to dinner parties — something that had rarely happened to him in the past. So much was he in demand that for the first time in his life he had to carry a pocket diary of his engagements.
At some houses the fashion was for musical evenings, at which either professional singers from the Opera or famous musicians would be engaged to perform or the singer or pianist would be a gifted society amateur. Among those the most frequently asked to sing was the beautiful Fanny Beredy. When Fanny was going to perform she would bring her own accompanist, a little shrivelled-up old maid who slipped in unnoticed by a side door and who, when Fanny was ready, was to be found already seated at the piano like a small heap of crumpled black chiffon.
One night the old lady sent word at the last moment that she was ill and could not come. If Laszlo had not at once offered to take her place Fanny’s performance would have had to be cancelled; and so it happened that by coming to her rescue he found himself unexpectedly admitted to her intimate circle. Throughout the Carnival season they had often met, but it had always been casually, as slight acquaintances in the same social group. He had kissed her hand, exchanged greetings, and they had occasionally danced together — but they had never come closer. When they talked, Fanny would look at him with a faintly mocking smile in those huge slanting eyes which so reminded him of a beautiful Siamese cat, but she would never call him to her or press him to stay if he started to move away from the group in which they found themselves. On the contrary she had always been the first to insist that he returned to his duties. Only from afar had she followed him with half-closed, seemingly sleepy eyes.
‘I’m indeed fortunate to accompany you again, Countess!’ said Gyeroffy as they moved towards the piano. ‘I would do it no matter when, with the greatest of pleasure!’
‘I am sure you are far too busy …’ she paused, ‘… with other more important things!’ and she laughed, a deep, throaty laugh which underlined the ambiguity of her words. Laszlo wondered what she had meant. Was she referring to his love for Klara or to the endless preoccupations that went with his position as leading dancer? Or could she have been referring to the fact that despite having received formal invitations he had never appeared at her house but only dropped visiting cards without coming in to pay a call? Strictly, of course, this had been mildly impolite on his part, but Fanny was too much a woman of the world to take offence. She had a deep knowledge of men and she knew that if a man were deeply in love he was better left alone. After all one only had to wait; keep in touch, but wait. That was the wisest policy, and perhaps when the time was ripe, then …? Fanny was sure that things would not go smoothly for Klara and Laszlo. If she waited — and if she still wanted him — maybe then. She would see.
As soon as Fanny started to sing, her warmth, musicianship and the beauty of her voice enchanted Laszlo as much as it had at Simonvasar. Her understanding of the music was sublime, her phrasing exquisite and she gave herself so totally to what she was doing that after a while Laszlo felt that she could have been the Muse Euterpe herself. When Fanny stopped singing he sensed that the music had created a special bond between them, and he wondered if the beautiful Countess Beredy felt the same.
‘If you’re free on Wednesday, Gyeroffy, do come to dinner! I always have a small party on Wednesday evenings. Just a few friends. Interesting, intelligent people. Do come … if you’re not doing anything else.’
Laszlo consulted his diary. ‘Wednesday. Yes, I’m free on Wednesday.’
‘Well, come then! Half-past eight. Black tie, not evening dress; it’s only a small party.’ Fanny spoke quite simply, in a cool manner quite devoid of coquetry. She then turned and walked over to where her audience were still gathered. The men crowded round her offering their congratulations, though to most of them this was merely a form of homage offered to her beauty rather than true appreciation of her singing. Fanny accepted their praise with a gracious smile. She did not look back to where Laszlo still stood beside the piano.
Laszlo moved over to rejoin Klara.
‘How beautifully she sings!’ he said enthusiastically as he sat down next to her.
‘I hate that cat!’ said Klara, but Laszlo did not hear what she said for the music still thundered in his head and he could think of nothing else.
Chapter Two
THE FOLLOWING WEDNESDAY Gyeroffy drove up to the old fortress of Buda, to the ancient town house of the Beredy family. This was an exquisite small palace built during the reign of the Empress Maria Theresia for a rich merchant’s family and later converted into an aristocrat’s town house by joining many small rooms together to make big ones. After mounting a rather narrow stairway the guests had to pass through a long gallery that overlooked the courtyard to reach a superb drawing-room whose windows opened over the fortifications of the old town. This is where Fanny always received her guests, and where Laszlo, for the first time, made the acquaintance of her husband.
Count Beredy never went out in society though he was often absent from home on business. He gave the impression of being an elderly man though in fact he was only about twenty years older than his young wife. He was broad, fat and moved slowly and heavily. What hair he still possessed was dyed reddish blond, as were the few bristles between nose and mouth that passed for a moustache. He was a man of few words and had a disconcerting habit of looking at whoever he might be talking to with a fixed stare. He had lips so thin that his mouth resembled a mere incision on the skin, and his plump fingers were covered in valuable rings, as if he felt the need to prove his wealth by a display of enormous diamonds.